


Comfort

by cocoacremeandgays



Series: Dirk's Not-So-Alphabetical Alphabet [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: "DAVID STRIDER GOES SHOPPING AT LOCAL WALMART EVERY NIGHT AT 03:00 BECAUSE OF INSOMNIA", Autism Spectrum Disorder, Dirk Tries, Facts about dead things, Gen, Gosh should I make that a thing, Hurt/Comfort-ish themes, I don't know where David (Alpha Bro) is in this, Lists, Maybe like out shopping at Walmart at 03:00, Referenced/Implied Sleep Paralysis, Stimming, Tinkering, injury mention, okay i'm done now, sensory processing disorder, sensory processing issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 15:18:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7110994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cocoacremeandgays/pseuds/cocoacremeandgays
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're woken up by a scream, and from the distinct tone of it, you know it isn't yours. You didn't think it was in the first place, but it's always good to check. The scream was loud, obnoxious, and incredibly unsettling, especially since you only heard a cry like that when Dave fractured his leg when you were five.</p>
<p>It's Dave.</p>
<p>((Alternatively known as: Dirk contemplates the meaning of comfort, life, and clocks at midnight, and tries to put what he's learned over the past ten years into action when Dave freaks out a little bit.))</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry if this is kind of bad. It's late where I am, I'm tired, and this was my fun-writing that I decided to do after a long day of being out and about for ten hours! Not to mention I only wrote this once, so no rough-draft or anything. This is the one, raw material my brain comes up with at one in the morning...  
> Also! Thanks to this fact website: http://www.factslides.com/s-Death , and all of their sources, I was able to find a whole bunch of interesting facts to incorporate into this! I didn't even use half of them, so make sure to check them out yourself at that link. Keep in mind they're death facts, so they might not be for everyone.  
> I just wanted to disclaim that none of the facts from this one-shot are from intense research, though I did read through a good chunk of the fact's and the sources listed in the fact site, and that they all came from that website. All credit goes to them for pulling those together. I just re-used them.  
> Hope you have fun reading!  
> Cheers. :)

You don't understand how to comfort people.

You don't know why, but there's something about situations where you're supposedly supposed to know what to do, where you just blanch, and have no idea what your goal is supposed to be, in the first place. You first noticed this when you were very young, age wise, maybe three or four. One of your classmates got hurt, really bad aparently, from the way you remember them screaming.

Everyone stopped what they were doing, dropped their pens, pencils, coloring utensils, and blocks- and instantly looked over to who had gotten hurt. The class erupted in "Are you okay?"s, as everyone tried to ask at once, wanting to make sure that their fellow injured classmate hadn't gotten too badly hurt. Everyone had begun to congregate around the injured kid and the teacher.

Everyone except for you.

In your little mind space, you had hardly noticed it all. All that you honestly realized at the time, was the fact that everything got very loud, and they were being very distracting. You had groaned, loud enough to block out everything else, but quiet enough so no one else would be able to hear you over their intense inquiries about the injury that had occurred.

Eventually, though, you looked up, too. Their voices and concerned whispers and questions were beginning to get annoying. When the situation sunk in, though, you didn't jump up to help out. Everyone else seemed to be giving their hand in to that process, anyway, and what would you even do? If you had gotten hurt, you would have just wanted to huddle in a corner with a screwdriver and a remote control, because even though Bro tried to hide that from you as a kid, the batteries and the way the back fit together really struck an "enamored" feeling in you.

Forget the buttons and the fact that they change the channel, or turn off the television altogether- the remote had a backing and it could be taken off if you took a screwdriver and stuck it in, and twisted it around in a circle.

That's what you'd want to do if you were hurt, and you surely would only start screaming when someone were to start to touch you. You don't enjoy it when people start to touch you, especially if they don't have a good reason to. Their hands are much too gentle, as if they're afraid of hurting you, and that in and of itself hurts you immensely.

After the strange, and very loud, ordeal of the situation of some child doing something otherwise completely stupid and getting hurt for it passed over, a fellow peer of yours had come up to you, and tapped you on the shoulder.

You hadn't liked this, and had only spun around to get them to leave you alone, and not touch you again like that, because you didn't like that, but they spoke before you could whine in her general direction until she got upset, freaked out, or just walked away.

"How come you don't care when someone gets hurt?" The classmate had asked you, rocking on the balls of her feet and giving you one of those "fake, stern" looks that adults give you when you do something you aren't supposed to do, or you got something immensely into the wrong. Her eyes were narrowed a bit, and you were incredibly new to this expression, considering you spent most of your time alone, near the corner of the room, during class-time, and your interactions with the teachers had been kept minimal and minute. Dave normally took care of your interactions for you. He was much more outgoing, and obviously understood more than you did on the subject, so you let him do so with mute thanks.

Unsurprisingly, you didn't answer. You didn't technically learn to speak correctly until you were six years old, and you were only three or four at the time. You could still speak, you just much rather preferred not to, because you didn't enjoy speaking up. It didn't seem logical, or needed, really.

"Because- Because, that isn't nice," she frowned at you, though she smiled a few seconds later. She couldn't seem to sit still. You couldn't blame her.

This was about the time you gave a whine, though by the time you had realized you had begun whining, the teacher had begun to tell you to "Shhh," and proceeded with, "You're disturbing the class, honey."

You didn't understand why she had said honey afterwards. You don't much care for honey. Honey is much too sticky, though the color is nice. The taste is strange, though, and it sticks to everything in a very disgusting and adhesive way, which isn't too surprising, considering it's a natural adhesive.

The second time you had noticed you didn't understand the basis of what the word "Comfort" entailed, was when you and Dave were five, and he fractured his leg. He was in intense pain, you could tell, and he was crying a lot. You don't blame him, honestly; you had broken your wrist before, and although that's a different injury, you can only imagine it's at least a bit similar, and that hurt a lot. You didn't understand that you were supposed to go up to him, or ask if he was okay, or do anything, so you didn't.

After that ordeal, when Bro finally heard him crying from inside, Dave had asked David why you hated him. Bro had taken you away after that, to give you a "Serious and very important talk that we need to have right now, young man."

He only calls you young man when you did something that you more than likely shouldn't have done in the first place.

Bro had crouched next to you, and held his hands in yours firmly. Not that fake-firm, either, but it was that real, actual, tight tight tight firm, that you really enjoyed. You had squealed, you remember, and he took his hands away when you did that. That was saddening.

"Kid, why didn't ya come get me when Dave got hurt?" You remember him asking.

You shrugged.

"You know it's important to get an adult when someone gets hurt, right?"

You shrugged again. You weren't really listening, you were only thinking about how you could be taking something apart and looking at how it was put back together again, like a remote.

"Next time someone gets hurt, get an adult."

You don't like that very much.

"Unless they seem perfectly fine, and are walkin' and laughin' the sh- uh, thing, off."

You failed to mention that you don't understand what expressions are a good way to determine who's hurt or not. You live in a world where a grin and an angry face look like pretty much nothing. They're just what someone's doing, honestly, and half the time, you avoid even looking at someone's face.

"Y'know what, get an adult even if it's just a little bump. Ya need t'a practice this," Bro had concluded, nodding to himself as if he was "confirming it with himself".

That was the end of the conversation.

Since then, now that you're fourteen, you still don't exactly understand the reciprocity of asking what's wrong, or answering what's going on with yourself. You honestly don't find it necessary, and you probably never will.

As 00:04 rolls around, you continue to stare at your clock with increasing interest, and decreasing melatonin. The fact that it glows probably doesn't help, and the fact that it's electronic more than likely doesn't help, either, but you can't help but try to figure out how the hell the thing ticks.

You don't know why the idea has never struck you before, to take apart your clock and understand its pieces, and then put it back together in the way you put it apart. You could easily do so, as well. You've done harder things.

With a squeal "of excitement", you wait until it passes 00:06 to get out of bed and pick up the digital clock in your hands. You don't know if you have to turn the thing off before you take it apart, but you honestly don't think it matters. You open up your bedside table's drawer, and pull out the small, portable toolbox that you borrowed from Bro a couple years back.

Your excitement reaches its "peak" as you flip the digital clock over and-

Realize it's one of those clocks that you simply squeeze a small, maneuverable flap in order to open up the backing and explore what's inside. In example, the batteries. This doesn't deter you, however, and you quickly open up the back, squealing as you do so, and you take the batteries out. You set each piece down by it's order of being removed.

Thin plastic backing is first.

The three batteries are next.

You're suddenly very stumped as to what to do with the rest of it, because nothing else can be taken off.

You groan loudly and flip the light-orange digital clock over in your hands. You always enjoyed doing that, because it felt nice. The rubber casing around it always really helped you out when you felt overwhelmed, or stressed about something, and-

"Oh, I see, you sneaky bastard," you mumble to yourself as you realize that the rubber casing can be taken off easily.

You're a bit nervous to do that, though, because you don't know what the plastic feels like underneath it. It frightens you a bit, as if you need reassurance, but you know that you don't need reassurance, you're fourteen and all you're doing is taking apart a damn clock, you don't need reassurance to do that.

Plus, David and Bro would probably flip if they knew you were up this late, tinkering "nonchalantly" with your light-orange digital clock.

"Without further adieu", you proceed to work your index fingers underneath the lips of the rubber casing, which keep it securely on the digital clock itself. By the time you get it off and have set it to the right of the batteries, which are to the right of the back casing, you don't know what time it is, because you've taken the batteries out of the clock, and if you put the batteries back in the clock, the clock will have reset completely, and you don't necessarily want to go through all the trouble of putting the batteries back in, resetting the clock, and checking the time, only to take the batteries back out again and then need to do the whole ordeal over again.

After this "train of thought", you look over and admire your handiwork with a long, satisfied squeal, or keen. Maybe it was a mixture. A happy keen, rather than a grievous noise that people make when mourning.

"Did you know that," you say to yourself, before you pause, looking into the corners of the clock (which are left splayed open). You can see the wires and the workings of the clock, the things that make the clock tick just a step closer to you. "That the enzymes that once digested your food, will end up eating you after only three days of having died?"

You find it a little silly that you're reciting facts to yourself, as if you didn't know them already, because it's yourself, of course you know them, but here you are anyway, telling yourself things you already know. A paradox type of thing. You could make a list of all of the facts later. That's a good idea, you'll do that.

"And... did you know," you squint your eyes in order to see into the dark recesses of the clock's confines, and you suddenly realize you haven't turned on the light yet to see what you're doing. "That more people commit suicide in New York City than are murdered?"

You can't wait to make that list, it's going to be so fun. You really like to make lists, because then everything is in order, and you can keep things in that order, and reading things that have been put into list form is fun, too.

"And," with a clear of your throat, you stand up from the sitting position on your bed, and flick the light on. The brightness bothers you, and even though it was brief, the discomfort still lingers in your head as you sit back down on your bed. "Approximately one hundred and fifty three thousand people will die on your birthday."

Your favorite type of list making is when you make lists about facts you have learned, and even though you only have two lists of those things (robotics and puppets), you intend to make a third and fourth one for hypnosis, and the topic you're rather enjoying right now. Death.

"And..." You furrow your brows, trying to see farther into the clock, but you've come to a dead end. You can't see anything else that resides inside of the clock, save for a few light-orange encased wires inside of the corners of it. "In 2013, Google founded Calico. Calico is an anti-aging company that is designed to cure death."

Death is a topic that you're particularly fond of, simply because of the fact that it is literally the only certain thing in life. If everyone understood this, then they might actually understand that they shouldn't find a "life extension" vaccine, or whatever the hell, because that would throw off life's balance.

"Did you know that, also," You pause, having come to a dead end with your clock-tinkering. There is no way to get safely into your clock without breaking the exterior shell (the exoskeleton, if you will), and this strikes you funny. "Left handed people tend to die three years earlier than right handed people do." You aren't thrown off by this fact, because it intrigues you further. It intrigues you, because you yourself are left handed. This doesn't perturb you. You remember the article you read. It was interesting. You read and memorized the whole thing.

If someone were to create a death-vaccine, that would mess with the scale. When you fuck with the scale, the whole "ship tips overboard", because the only thing certain in life is death. When you take that away, it becomes... nothing. Nothing is therefor certain, therefor much more is possible. Once anything is possible, there is no limits. Life-spans become a thing of the past. The world will over-populate. It will ruin society and the planet.

"Every forty seconds, someone commits suicide." You want to break the exoskeleton, but that would potentially get you into a lot of trouble. You don't know how much this clock costs, so it might be a bit difficult to replace, especially since it's digital. Of course, most things are digital nowadays, which kind of sucks, but is kind of awesome at the same time.

Once your tinkering is over with, you give yourself another, rewarding squeal, before beginning to put the clock's rubber case back on. It's skin. Maybe the clock itself isn't an exoskeleton, after all. It's just a skeleton, protecting the organs, even though you know fair well that it isn't any type of living thing. You enjoy thinking about it that way.

"And, six hundred Americans die each year by falling out of their beds." You replace the batteries, and then the backing, and realize you need to reset your clock now, or else you can't have your 6:40 alarm going. It's up to you, considering you're obviously the only person up in your apartment, to reset your clock. You know how, thankfully, and tiptoe your way out of your room.

It takes you a few minutes to successfully, and just as quietly, sneak your way down to the living room, where the ticking of the clock on the wall has you caught off guard for a good ten minutes. In this time, you try to imitate the clock's ticking noises. You snap yourself away from it by another fact about death.

"Nearly six thousand people per year in the United Kingdom get injured or killed by their trousers by either tripping over them, or pulling them up while on the steps." You like this one. That right there is why you, personally, wear a belt.

You look back at your clock, and quickly set the time on it (01:01). You know you need to head off to bed, now. You stop, and make sure that both clocks switch at the same time, and then you walk back to your room.

"At least," you yawn, pressing your hand to your mouth, "one out of every twenty five people who are sentenced to the death penalty in the United States are innocent." You're tired. You definitely need to sleep now.

You slip your toolbox quietly back into your nightstand drawer, kind of upset by the fact that you didn't get to use it tonight, and you flick the light off. Time for bed.

"Doctor's sloppy handwriting kills around seven thousand people annually," you mumble as you slip into bed, huddling under the covers, and staring sleepily at your digital clock. You fall asleep to the calming number five.

~*~*~

You're woken up by a scream, and from the distinct tone of it, you know it isn't yours. You didn't think it was in the first place, but it's always good to check. The scream was loud, obnoxious, and incredibly unsettling, especially since you only heard a cry like that when Dave fractured his leg when you were five.

It's Dave.

You quickly throw your covers off your body, remembering Bro telling you about what to do when someone gets hurt. You narrowly miss sidestepping a random piece of wood on the floor that you don't specifically remember putting there, but you'll leave it anyway, because you know you probably put it there for a reason, and if you pick it up, that reason will never come to you again.

Slipping out of your room and down the darkened hallway, your hand finds itself resting comfortable on the door knob, and you twist it open, awaiting to see whatever had happened.

Blood? Guts? Gore? Is there a thief in the apartment? Is there an axe murderer in the apartment? Or maybe just a plain old murderer. Needless to say, this upsets you, because you should be sleeping right now, and you should not be walking into your brother's room at...

What time is it? You forgot to check.

When you enter Dave's room, however, what you see is something rather normal.

Dave is sitting up, huddled with his knees tightly pressed to his chest, while Bro holds Dave's shaking form in just as equal of an amount of tightness (you estimate), to his own chest. He's shushing him, trying to "console" him, rocking gently back and forth the way you do when you're concentrating, but this seems different.

Dave looks freaked out, and looks as if he had just seen a ghost. Without thinking, you flick on the light. You had forgotten about the shared sensory processing problems your family has, and instantly regret doing so. It was mindless. You didn't mean to. It was habit. You were sorry, but you said nothing.

Bro had hardly flinched, just shut his eyes tightly against the offending brightness. You had flinched, and rubbed your eyes, while Dave had threatened to let out another scream. You were very sorry, but you still said nothing. You're sure they understand you're sorry.

"Shh, kid, Dave, chill out," Bro says. You think this is that whole "comforting" thing that Bro had told you to do. You still really don't understand how to do that, though you feel that you should understand how to do that.

You make your way foreword, and sit on the bed directly in front of Bro and Dave. They keep rocking, and you can't help but begin rocking, too, but at your own pace, in your own way. This is nice. Wait, hold on, comfort Dave.

"C'mon, Dave- hey, Dave, what happened?" Bro said, his voice quiet as he slowly stopped his rocking. You, however, continued to rock. Like hell you were going to stop rocking, rocking is the best, especially when you have your legs crossed, Indian-style, and your head is low.

"C'mon, Dave, what happened?" You try repeating what Bro had said, and scoot foreword more, encasing your arms tightly around Dave's other side. Dave doesn't object, but he doesn't seem to react to anything. "Are you having a meltdown?"

"N-No," Dave swallows, wiping his eyes quickly with the edge of his sleeves. "Fuck off. I'm fine."

"Dave, you are definitely not fine. Your fineness levels are probably through that metaphorical charted roof that you always talk about. Or, rather, through the basement, because the roof means high. Low, Dave. Low levels. What happened." This time, you state it, breathing in your twin's fresh, fruity scent. He smells like artificial strawberries and chemicals, but in a good way.

"I had a nightmare, okay? Bugger off."

You groan, and you can feel Bro shaking his head at Dave's answer. You tighten your grip when the touches get too light for your liking.

"What kind'a nightmare?" Bro asked, and you listen to the sound of fabric rubbing on skin, as Bro rubs Dave's back. You observe that, and wonder if that comes in as a part of comfort. Dave whines, seemingly not enjoying the fact that he might have to explain.

"It had to have been pretty bad for you to have screamed like that. You screamed like that the time you fractured your leg." You comment, off-handed, as if it were an interesting fact, rather than a point-out sort of thing.

"I couldn't move," Dave hisses, clawing at his sleeves. "I couldn't move, and I could hardly breathe, but I was awake, I swear it, I swear I was awake.

"And- and something was there. Something was here, in the room, with me, behind me, and I couldn't move, because I knew it wanted to hurt me, and I couldn't let it know I was really there, even though I know that's illogical, and then- and then I heard footsteps, but they weren't really there, because none of you woke up until I screamed, which I didn't originally mean to do, by the way, I'm sorry about that." Dave stopped. His thoughts and explanations seemed incomplete to you. You didn't understand what had happened, because it honestly just sounded like a bad dream.

You have had plenty of bad dreams in your fourteen years, most of which involve not being able to move quick enough from a situation in which calls for something to be asked of you in a social situation where you don't understand or know what to do in the first place.

"But- But- I- I was awake-" Dave choked, and you slip down so your face is pressing into the side of his knee, rather than his shoulder. He sounds like he's starting to cry again, you don't want him to start crying again. "It crawled on me, and I swear it, I was awake."

Bro lets a low, distinguished hushing noise escape from his throat, and it's actually rather soothing. You're impeccably tired. "I gotcha, kid, I gotcha," Bro hummed, and you don't know what he's doing, but from the sound of it, he's trailing his hand through Dave's hair. "You're okay now, though. You're good."

Now, you're not exactly the master of articulation and intonation, and not to mention cadence recognition is far from your strong suit, but it seemed as if Bro knew exactly what was going on, and really felt for Dave. Or, maybe he was just incredibly confused. Those both sound really similar to you, with the intonations and vocal cues, or whatever.  
You drift off as Bro softly starts to tell Dave about what had happened. The only thing you hear Bro say before you've fallen completely asleep in Dave's lap, is the term, "Sleep Paralysis."

You don't know what it is, but you think you might do some research, even if only to keep Dave from screaming in the middle of the night.


End file.
